Friday, March 02, 2018

Our life-long family friend, June Hurley, passed away on December 8, 2017. As her nieces and nephews cleaned out her home, they located a box containing reels of Super 8 home movies. Aunt June's nephew, Dan, had them digitized and shared them.

Everyone moves like silent film stars in Super 8 movies. It was no different in Aunt June's home movies, so I watched them in ultra slow motion and was gratified to see numerous glimpses of my family throughout.

The first section of film must have been shot around 1974. It shows Aunt June's son, J.T., and three other boys throwing a basketball and volleyball at a basketball hoop on Aunt June's carport in late afternoon sunshine. At one point, J.T. stands, smiles at the camera and then does a crazy dance.

The home movies then flashback to Aunt June's wedding day in 1966. As the camera frantically pans the reception, my parents come into frame, my father looking
like a benevolent mobster with his slicked back, jet-black hair and
Alfred Hitchcock suit. My mother sits across from him, sipping red wine.

The film jumps ahead through the years to approximately 1975/76, showing J.T. and two boys playing in his rowboat at the shoreline. One of his aunts tries to maintain control of the mutineers who scramble into the rowboat only to turn around and jump back out into the water.

Another jump brings us to a summer afternoon at Aunt June's beach in the same time period. My family and I are in attendance. The camera follows J.T. -- who appears to have just come from swimming in the lake -- as he runs effortlessly up the business-end of his slide, only to gracefully turn around and jog back down. As he does this, I can be seen in the background, playing in the sand. J.T. goes up the slide a few times. One of the times, he lingers, standing there, a king surveying his kingdom -- whose plumber's crack peeks over the back of his teeny swim trunks.

There is a jump in the action and the camera is then focused on my mother pulling the bathing suit off my younger brother, as she chats with Aunt June and some other ladies. My brother is crying for some reason. My dad bends down to see what's wrong. Then my dad sweeps sand off my brother's tan-lined behind. After a moment, I stroll into the shot, wearing my reddish/orange
Peche Island tank top. Aunt June is seated on the stairs of her back
porch. She appears to ask me something, and then she scoops me up into her arms. The love on display in that simple
footage is breathtaking. I squirm and Aunt
June lets me down, but not before kissing me on the back of my head.
The camera stays on us long enough to see me wipe at the kiss from the
back of my head, as I walk away. Then there are shots of my brother and
I with J.T. around a bonfire some dude is stoking.

The film footage ends on a surprisingly dramatic image: J.T. stands beyond the roaring bonfire doing karate moves, chopping handfuls of sand. As he winds up and gives the beach itself an almighty karate chop -- the screen goes black. The grainy, shaky portal into the past closes.

I don't know how many reels were found, but their combined footage adds up to 11 minutes of irreplaceable personal history. For me, it's the video equivalent of the Shroud of Turin. And it plunged me, happily, sadly, profoundly, into my own memories of John Timothy Hurley of Puce, Ontario, circa the 1970s.

One my earliest memories of J.T. was when he visited our house. He and I and my little brother were engaged in our favorite activity: running -- inside, outside, around the backyard, back into the house, outside again. As we ran out of the house by way of the back door -- a wooden framed door comprised of three or four panes of rectangular glass -- J.T. pushed on the lowest pane of glass and put his hands right through it. Everything stopped. The adults mobilized. I stood stalk still, watching as J.T. held
his hands up like a surgeon after scrubbing, looking at them. His hands were covered with blood. The
blood shocked me, but I was instantly reassured by the look on J.T.'s face,
an expression that said: "Ugh, how long is this going
to take before we can get back to having fun?"

My dad replaced the broken window with a
board and painted it green. We had that door
for many years afterward. Whenever I looked at that board -- which was
everyday, for that was the door through which we came and went -- I
thought of J.T..

We visited Aunt June's in December of 1977, when ice from the lake had piled in a mountain along the shore. Following an afternoon of climbing on the boulders of ice, we retired indoors where, among other pursuits, J.T. taught me how to climb a doorway. Afterward, J.T. had Aunt June play his favorite Christmas record
for us, over and over: "Snoopy vs. the Red Baron" from the Snoopy and His Friends album.

It was a great night of education: J.T. also taught my brother and I the age-old variation on "Jingle Bells":

We thought it was the funniest thing ever. Topped only by his recitation of:

Chinese, JapaneseDirty knees... look at these...

After
which point, Aunt June gave him a playful swat. That was all my brother and I
needed. We repeated the rhyme, too, and received the most
loving swats that only Aunt June could deliver, as she laughed in spite
of herself.

CHiPs

The thing I remember best about J.T. is that he was a
genius of fun. One night, he and Aunt June visited our home. Down in our basement rec room, J.T.
showed us how
to build ramps with our wooden blocks and use them to jump our Fisher Price
cars. Then he put on a TV show that he enjoyed: CHiPs, about California highway motorcycle cops. It instantly became our
favorite TV show. I watch it to this day whenever the retro channel
shows it.

J.T. had asthma. At one point, his doctor changed the medication he took to ease his symptoms. There was one side effect: it caused J.T.'s skin to peel, particularly on his hands. Being a kid, he
picked and picked at it, though Aunt June told him not to. My brother
and I must seem like deprived children because, yet
again, we thought it was so cool. Around this time, I remember riding in Aunt June's car
one afternoon. It was winter, the time of year we battled chapped lips, and Suzie
Chapstick commercials were everywhere. As J.T. picked at his hands, Aunt June handed a tube of lip balm back to us that had a 7-Up label on it. It was
the 1970s, so we all took turns using it. It smelled and tasted just like
7-Up pop. As I wondered how it would taste if I actually took a bite, I noticed a furtive look on J.T.'s face. He must have read
my mind because he opened his mouth a moment later and showed me he'd
bitten off half the stick. As always, he was the trailblazer and told
us that it tasted better on the lips. The whole stick tasted like bug spray.

As it turned out, alarmed by his peeling skin and their doctor's lack of concern, Aunt June took it upon herself to research the new medication. The doctor had dismissed her as an over protective mother, but Aunt June showed up to the next appointment with proof -- photocopied from medical journals -- that her concerns were legitimate. The prescription was changed and J.T.'s skin no longer peeled.

The inimitable Felix the Cat.

No matter when J.T. came to our house, it was an Event. At the risk of canonizing the dead, or turning him into a superhero, suffice it to say J.T. was wall-to-wall fun. There was one P.A. day when Aunt June left J.T. at my house while she went to
work. J.T. had his broken leg at the time and he allowed me to examine what his friends had written and drawn on his plaster cast. I thought it was the coolest thing that the leg of his pants had been cut up to the knee to accommodate the bulkiness of the cast. After that day, I remember asking my mother if I could cut my pants in a similar manner -- at the time, not realizing the practical purpose it served.

On the P.A. day, J.T. brought with him a big sketch pad and a black marker. Since I had last seen him, he had taken up cartooning. A dabbler, myself, I was fascinated looking at the pictures he had drawn. At one point, I was
watching the old cartoon Felix the Cat. Next thing I knew, J.T. had
drawn a very close likeness of Felix the Cat in his sketchbook. Now,
Felix the Cat is not Vitruvian Man, but I have to say, for an
eight year old boy, it was pretty damned good.

J.T.'s favorite movie at the time he passed away was Hooper starring Burt Reynolds.
I had seen ads on television for the movie, but it didn't look like anything my parents would take me to see. I can't say for sure, but I would bet it was J.T.'s dad who took him to see it, as I could not envision Aunt June taking him, either. J.T. spoke about if often. Reynolds
plays an aging stunt man. J.T. loved anything related to stunt work. I have since seen the film and can say unequivocally that it was made for nine year old boys.

On one of our visits to Aunt June's, we stayed into the evening and retired to her front room, which looked onto Lake St. Clair. In there, she had a small fireplace. After stoking up a fire, Aunt June unwrapped a waxy bar that looked like a large, white chocolate bar, that was separated into squares. She broke off a few squares and tossed them into the fire. A moment later, the flames turned a series of psychedelic colors. We were mesmerized. J.T. became instantly fascinated by the stuff. After our experience with the 7-Up Chapstick, I wondered if he was going to break off a square and eat it. He did not. Aunt June broke off some more squares and let each of us toss them into the fire, watching the phantom colors dance across the waxy stuff until it melted into oblivion.

Among my final memories of J.T. Hurley was the day my mother gravely told me he had been caught stealing a bag of chips from a convenience store. It was kind of a Scared Straight moment, that if J.T. could be ensnared by such temptation, who was safe? And if J.T. could be caught, who could hope to get away with such a heist?

The next time I saw J.T., I asked him about it. We spoke in solemn terms. Yes, he had done it. Yes, he had been caught (though, he was vague about the details). Then the Big Question: "What did your Mom do?" I asked. To put it succinctly, Aunt June was an excellent mother. She chose her battles, she knew when to be tolerant, and she knew when the hammer should fall. When it came to stealing a bag of chips, the hammer fell.

"She made me bring the chips back to the store and apologize to the owner," J.T. said. I winced, imagining the awkwardness of the scene. Then my mind ran through the calculus of criminality -- so, J.T. hadn't even gotten a chance to eat the chips! Our parents and teachers had not been lying: Crime didn't pay.

"Then I had to say ten 'Hail Mary's and ten 'Our Father's," J.T. said. He was then grounded for an unspecified period of time. If there was one unspoken message that made itself perfectly obvious: J.T.'s life of crime was over before it began.

Somewhere around 1985, my mother took my
grandfather -- Ted Hickey, originally of County Kildare, Ireland -- out
to see Aunt June. By that time, Grandpa Ted had had a stroke and he went from being a profoundly active man in his late 70s (at one
point, digging up his own sewer when the city came to him and said repairs
had to be made to the line serving his house), to a man with a
half-paralyzed body whose only mobility was a wheelchair.

If there is
one thing about Aunt June that continually struck me all the years I
knew her, it was her endlessly optimistic outlook. Sure, she was a
realist, and could certainly call a "spade" a "spade", but she was always so upbeat. It was no different the afternoon
Mom and my grandfather visited. At some point, Aunt June asked Grandpa (the most frugal man who ever lived, who never turned his
heat above 50 degrees Farenheit in the winter) what he would do if he
won the lottery. It was a wonderfully preposterous question. The idea
of Grandpa Ted parting with a dollar for a lottery ticket was beyond
the realm of reason, but I love that Aunt June asked him. At the best of times, Grandpa
was difficult to pin down and Mom later described how he demured and
avoided answering Aunt June's question. But Aunt June (who had known him for nearly 30
years by then) was having none of it. She prodded him from every direction -- "Would buy a new
car? Would you move out of the nursing home and hire
servants? Would you travel?"

Seeing his chance to get off the topic,
Grandpa said, "Well, I could never travel with this thing," indicating his wheelchair. To which
Aunt June goodnaturedly exploded: "Jesus, Ted, you hire someone to push
the fucking thing!"

It was 38 years before I knew where J.T. was buried. Once I found out, I took every opportunity to visit his grave. By my third or fourth visit, I noticed many of the other graves had fresh flowers by
them, indicating they were visited by someone who cared. I didn't want
anyone to think J.T. was forgotten, so I drove into Belle River to get
some flowers. As I looked around the small floral section of a grocery store, I suddenly thought, "What use would a nine year old boy have
for flowers?" So, at home, I found an image of Batman visiting his
parents graves, holding a bouquet of flowers. I know what Batman means
to nine year old boys. I wrote a note to J.T. on the back, saying we loved him and we missed him, and laminated
the image. My five year old son was with me when I mounted it at
J.T.'s grave. Then my son and I visited Aunt June at Seasons Retirement Home down the
road. On subsequent visits, I have been amazed that the laminated
image remains standing at J.T.'s grave. In fact, it proved an
excellent marker for finding him in the snow.

In my last conversation with Aunt June, we talked about a play I had written called Sermon on the Ward,
in which the actual, historical figure, Jesus Christ, is a resident in a modern hospital psychiatric
ward. Everyone around Jesus -- staff, patients, administration -- all
accept that he is the Jesus of the New Testament, though no one is willing to sign the paperwork to that effect.

Aunt June was a tremendous
reader, devouring each gargantuan installment of The Clan of the Cave Bear
in mere days, for instance. She was kind enough to read my work, and was always very supportive. I appreciated
her feedback because she gave an honest opinion. When she didn't like something, she told me why. At one point in Sermon on the Ward, Jesus
Christ uses profanity. Aunt June didn't like that. She felt it was beneath
him. I agreed, but my point in the play was
that I don't believe contemporary Christians would recognize Jesus
Christ if he returned. Moreover,
since the story of Jesus in the New Testament is hearsay, nobody knows
how Jesus Christ actually spoke. It was a fun and interesting discussion with
Aunt June. One of her many positive attributes was that she was always
willing to listen to someone else's opinion.

And now all we have left are 11 minutes of home movies saved from oblivion by Aunt June's nephew, along with some photo albums and our memories. It's not enough, of course, but they are, for me, much more a source of comfort and joy than of sadness. For anyone who heard Aunt June's laugh, who could forget it? For anyone who played with J.T., who could ever forget him? The boy who was never too cool to get down on the floor and play with a toy car.

Last photograph of J.T. Hurley, taken March 1979, found
among his mother's possessions at the time of her death.